The Story of a Betrayer
by Triaony
Summary: History books class Harry Potter as a coward, a betrayer. Three hundred years from now he is still remembering his betrayal. This is the story of a betrayer from his eyes. By signing his own death warrant, blood drinker Harry Potter is telling his story.


**Authors Note: This is my first ever story. I hope you all like it. It is meant to be in first person perspective and is supposed to be read as if you are reading someone's personal thoughts as they write them down which is the reason some of it seems slightly awkward. It is how many of us often write diaries.**

**Summary:**In the History books Harry Potter is classed as a coward, a betrayer. Many think he is dead. He isn't, three hundred years from now he is still living, still remembering his friends and his rage. This is the story of the betrayer from his perspective. A perspective that none would ever wish to read. By signing his own death warrant, blood drinker Harry Potter is telling word the truth.

**Disclaimer: I am in no way making any money from this.**

**The Story of a Betrayer**

**Chapter 1**

If you look in the history books you will find my name. I am not classed as a hero, nor am I classed as the villain, instead my name is tarnished with the title of coward, of traitor. In the history books you will read of how I ran with my tail between my legs, how I was such a coward I left the world to ruin. If you read the history books you will see how another teenager stepped up to the plate, a teenager who became a legend and now a myth, his name was Neville Longbottom and he is long since dead. All of those who fought in the great Wizarding war are dead; I am the only one living. I am the only one who remembers what it was like in that era, I am the one who knows truly why I ran. I hold the answers close to my heart, I hold the reason of why I became a coward, why I deserted everyone and now is the time that I reveal why.

Many people read the history books, they watch the documentaries but they care nothing of those who are shown in a dark light, they care nothing about what their reasons are, why they chose to do those actions, in the modern world nobody cares. They listen to what they are told, if some professor is stating that they were bad, that they were evil then they must be right. After all they have degrees behind them so they must know what they are going on about. History is just rumours of those who won, their ideas on why everybody did what they did, they care nothing about facts, they care nothing about why I ran, why I never helped them. They don't seem to think about how hard it was for me, to hide, to watch them die one by one, to hear their screams for me. No one seems to care about that, I am just a coward who deserved to die, just a coward worth nothing. That is what they see me as. I am bitter again, I must not drown myself in my bitterness, and it has been too long. It has been centuries why must I still feel this bitterness?

I was a hero to begin with. You can't believe that can you? My name was Harry Potter and to begin with I was the Boy-Who-Lived. I was a hero who was loved, hated and feared by everyone. There was nothing I could do that wouldn't be commented on in the papers. Everything was either wrong or right, I could not control the press but I didn't want to. Why would I want to be the glimmer of the press's eye when I didn't even want to be hero? Why would I care about the fickle public? I had my friends; I had my dignity that was it, nothing more. I should not start with this should I? Maybe I should begin? It would help for you to understand.

To start my story I must go back three hundred years, back to a time when I was mortal and was grieving so much that I planned my own death. I was sixteen when I saw my mentor die at the hands of one I could supposedly trust, die at the hands of one that I had warned everyone about but was classed as a foolish child, die at the hands of the person my mentor trusted with everything. I had been made to watch as he was killed, the green curse hitting him in the chest, watching as he fell over the edge of the tower. Of course I showed none of my grief only anger, like males are often prone to show. I ran after the murderer screaming at him to stop, my heart was broken, my mind along with it but I continued to scream at him, to throw curses at him though he brushed them aside and then he was gone. I played the part of a mourning hero; I broke up with my girlfriend stating phrases of wanting to protect her though deep down I felt nothing. I had thought at the time it was numbness from watching my mentor die but now looking back I realise that it was not.

I realised that I had never truly loved her. Yes I know I was only sixteen and many sixteen year old males know nothing of love but I knew there should have been some sort of feeling between us and yet no matter how I embraced her, no matter when I kissed her freckled skin, made love to her, there was never love between us to me it was just sex, just something to pass the time and yet also I was being very selfish. Back when I was mortal I was someone who was constantly in the spotlight. I was constantly watched and scrutinised, many people thought it odd that at sixteen I only had one relationship which failed miserably and I only had one kiss. Not something to be proud of. So I went for the closest and easiest thing at hand, my best friend's sister. He was ecstatic to find that I was the one dating her. We were like brothers so it would be easier for him to look over her and for me; it kept everyone off my back. I had protected her for a long time, she had always had a crush on me and so it seemed natural.

Nothing about the relationship was natural. She thought it was. She had notions of us marrying, though she said nothing to me, she enjoyed our time together and when I told her not to tell others about what we had done, she believed me when I stated it was because I wanted to protect her reputation. She had laughed.

'Harry you are such a gentleman,' she had said to me before wrapping her arms once more around me.

The true reason behind why I broke up with her, the reasons why I threw her to the side are difficult to explain but I shall try. I suppose there were many reasons but one of them was the deep shame I felt. I was truly ashamed of what I was doing. Constant thoughts were running through my mind.

'Who uses their best friend's sister? You are nothing but a cruel pervert to do this! You are just stringing her along.'

I had stopped sleeping due to these thoughts though I told my friends it was because of Voldemort. I was his enemy. The Mortal Enemy of The Dark Lord Voldemort. I wanted to protect the wizarding world from his tyranny he was nothing but an evil wizard who loved to torture and humiliate. I told them that it was Voldemort keeping me awake. That I was gaining harsh visions I could hardly remember, that I was having nightmares and with sympathetic looks, murmurs of reassurance that they would be there for me, they would often turn and go back to their daily routine. My girlfriend, Ginny her name was, thought nothing of the fact that I never invited her to my bed but instead I would always visit hers and leave before morning. She too believed my stories about Voldemort and for a moment I was safe. I despised living this lifestyle and watching my mentor die I realised life was too short and I had a way out.

At his funeral I took her aside, I had explained to her everything I was going through with Voldemort that I wanted to protect her and though she didn't like it, like I've said, she agreed. I have never felt as free as I did then. I felt that finally I could do what I wish but then the shame came back. I was using my mentor's death for my own advantage. Was it wrong of me? Back then I didn't know. I was angry and grieving and yet fools who knew nothing were surrounding me. They said empty words of understanding, of being there for me but they weren't. I could see it in their eyes and I felt they were just belittling me making my anger much worse. I know now that I was being childish, I was letting Voldemort win but then I didn't care. Not then and now I cannot find it within myself to care.

My friends and me were going to find ways to get rid of Voldemort. We had always gone on our adventures together. We were strong, the golden trio many often called us and yet when they stated they would come with me, when they said they would give up everything to help I cannot describe the hatred I felt.

'Can't they just leave me alone,' I had thought angrily as they pledged their loyalty to me. As they stated they would be there to help me.

'Do they not think I am strong enough?' these thoughts ran rampant through my mind as they continued to talk. On the outside I was smiling in gratitude telling them how I was glad they would wish to help me. Calling them my best friends and yet beneath the surface I was nothing of the sort. I was being a child, the child many accused me of being but I didn't care. I had no parents; in three years I had watched three people die in front of me because they were looking out for me, because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is understandable that I'd be bitter, resentful of having friends. What was the point of having friends or loved ones when they would just be killed? I did not see the point, so behind fake smiles and words of writing and getting in touch soon I left them to go home with my hateful family.

My parents died when I was a baby. My family, though even now I class them only as blood relatives, were my mother's sister and her husband and child. They were foul people. The kind of muggles that Voldemort believed they all were like. They despised magic and by default they despised me. I was used to them though. It was something I had to suffer alone. I could not allow my friends to see me there so I persuaded them not to come like I have said.

At first they did not readily accept me saying no to them. My friends were very tenacious especially my brown, bushy-haired friend, Hermione. She continued to ask me why.

'Don't push us away because of what happened to Professor Dumbledore,' she said as she held one of my hands. I wanted to pull away.

'I'm not pushing you away Hermione. I will see you at Bill's wedding and then we shall be together and find the horcruxes together,' I had replied a sad smile on my face. I knew that she fell for it. She, at that very moment, showed that she was human that I could outsmart her and that information hit me like a tonne of bricks.

It was like hearing your father scream in pain or cry, or seeing your leader die. You realise that everything you knew, everything you relied on was not set in stone and finding that out hurts. At that very moment I knew that Hermione would always think of me, as a child who needed her protection, who needed her beside me for everything and that was when I truly started to hate her. I have a feeling you are wondering why I started to hate her. Many people often wonder the reason why behind hatred.

I cannot tell you an exact reason why. All I can figure was that I did not like being treated as child; I did not like others thinking I needed them and I especially didn't like her constantly asking me questions. I was very much the child I didn't want to be classed as. Yet sitting here, sitting in front of an old piece of parchment, a quill in my hand I can envision all who is reading this asking me how is that now I act so mature. How is it that now I am looking back on my teenage years with a sense of irritation and bitterness. Shall I tell you how three hundred years later I am telling you the story of a coward? Shall I tell you the answer, which is death to any who speak it aloud? We are known about but never muttered in polite society. What I am is a curse in more ways then one. I am a blood drinker.

There I have said it. I have said those dreaded words that shall surely bring death knocking on my door. When I was young blood-drinkers were a thing of myth, something that mortals called Vampires but we are not. We do have fangs but we do not have super strength or speed, those are the gifts for the muggles turned. I was a wizard when I was turned so I got other gifts. I could control an element, air seemed to be my gift as well as water, why water I will never understand but that is a gift I found myself with. My magic increased though I still needed a wand to begin with. Like everything with age came new gifts. As I have aged my gifts have become stronger and now I do not need to use a wand, I can call upon the elements with out so much of a thought or frown. I do not have strength or speed because I do not need it, I cannot read the mind of others because there is no point in it.

Again writing this I can imagine the silly misconceptions you all have shall I tell you a few truths before I continue on with my story? Before I continue on with why being a blood drinker is outlawed? I think I shall. It shall make things easier further on.

Blood drinkers are nothing like Dracula apart from the fact that we drink blood and we must sleep in coffins. Yes coffins are our beds though as we age we need them less like we need sleep less. When we are made we must rest in a coffin so that our bodies may finally die, our magic can grow and we can be safe from outside influences on our magic. We must sleep every day in a coffin until we have strengthened so we do not get corrupted by outside magic, that is why we need a coffin but as we age, as we grow older and stronger our need to sleep is less, the need to be safe is less, so we do not sleep and when we do, we sleep for years. I have not slept in ten years and I'm not feeling any fatigue. I had already slept fifty years before then opening my eyes to feel the new wonders of magic, to realise that being a blood drinker was outlawed, that being a blood drinker was classed as a sin.

We blood drinkers can go in the sunlight which makes us harder to track. However we cannot stay in the mid-day sun. It is too intense for a young vampire so we must sleep during it, now as I'm centuries old it does not bother me, neither does crosses nor stakes through the heart. How can we be killed? That is a story for another time.

All I know is that when I was made it was a wondrous experience and many often didn't believe in blood drinkers. Yes the wizarding world had werewolves but blood drinkers, they were just stories thought up by a man, that was what everyone thought so blood drinkers could live in peace, they cared nothing for wizards only when their next meal was. That was the only thing that mattered. Slowly over the years being a blood drinker has become something that cannot be let to live. Werewolves were made extinct a hundred years ago and now it is the turn of the blood drinkers. The new children of the blood are easy targets, we old ones though, we are harder to track and that makes us all the more dangerous. That is how the mortals think of it, so me writing this is signing my death warrant. To tell a mortal, to write a story mortals will undoubtedly find and read about a blood drinker's life is suicide and yet I cannot find it within myself to care. What is to me if they try and kill me? I am stronger then them and never before have I understood the saying that absolute power corrupts.

So how did I become a blood drinker? I can see the question forming in your mind. The answer is easy. I became a blood drinker by being a childish fool who let my emotions guide me into death's hands. Many had often said that I always run into trouble, that I was a child and had to let the adults stay in charge, how I had hated them when they said such a thing but now I understand them. Me acting as childish as I did, me surrendering to my childish emotions and my own ego got me killed and made me what I am today.

I was turned at the home of my best friend. I had planned to meet up with my friends at Ron's, older brother's, wedding. My first week with my relatives meant nothing to me. I stayed out of their way and they stayed out of mine. However it was one of my worst summers ever. I was grieving; I was burning with rage and wanting revenge. I have never felt such hatred, even now sitting here writing this down I burn with the hatred I felt back then, I burn with the need to watch the murderer scream in pain and die, in three hundred years my rage has not gone away.

I understand the reasons behind what he did but I could never forgive him. I do not lie when I say between us there was never any love. Only hatred. When he murdered my mentor I forever hated him, I was forever filled with the need of revenge and even now, though he has long since died, I will never forgive him. I cannot write his name. If I did you would instantly think to what is written in your history books and I shall start to think of him as the person he was. I would start to think back to my school days and I'm sure my rage would build. I may have aged but in this instance I wish to surrender to my own selfish desires and not relive that. Maybe I truly am the coward I am classed as. So I shall not give him a name apart from murderer for that was what he was. During that summer and the years that followed that was all I thought, all I would ever think.

My first week at my relative's home passed slowly. I would stay in my room during the night and during the day I would work in my aunt's garden, pulling out the weeds, painting the fence, and fixing the sprinklers. I remember that that year there was another water shortage. England was having strange weather, one moment it was cold and stormy the next hot and dry. One thing was certain the water company had a broken pipe and so many households if not all of the south had to watch what water they used, hosing down cars were illegal but my relatives they cared nothing for that.

'I will not have my garden look like hers from number 3. My roses and lawn must be perfect what would Mrs Sanders think when she comes for her afternoon tea if our garden was like that woman's?' my aunt had screeched when the ban had come over the ten o clock news.

'Now dear I would not leave you without your water. There are loopholes as we all know and I'm sure they wouldn't care about one house is Little Whinging. No they will most probably spend their time watching those corrupt government officials. Hypocrites the lot of them.' My uncle had always been quick to reassure my aunt. She wore the trousers in that household though he tried to hide it.

So they had the sprinklers on and whilst lying under the front room window, I would always feel the cooling spray of water. It had been refreshing, calming but I wouldn't close my eyes, I couldn't. I would lay there day after day listening to the news trying to find out what was happening, trying to sort out my own feelings but the grief would creep up on me and I would wish for death.

'What use am I? How will I save the wizarding world if not even Dumbledore could protect it? I'm nothing like him,' the thoughts would go round in my head in continuous circles. They would cause me to choke and I felt I was constantly drowning in them. I have never been suicidal not till then. I was not ashamed I just wanted the voices to stop, I just wanted my mind to stop thinking and so I would work myself to exhaustion just so I wouldn't have to think. So each night I would fall on my bed too tired to even dream. That was how I did it for that week, up until the wedding.

My best friend's mother had brought my wedding outfit, I could not get to Diagon Alley to get it, and arriving that day by floo I could see it hung by the couch. Apparently Fred and George had been pulling pranks on Ron again which involved stink bombs or some such treat, so Mrs Weasley had taken my outfit and placed it in the front room. The twins were too afraid of her wrath to even think of doing anything in the front room plus I have a slight feeling they didn't wan to mess with their 'main investor' as they often called me.

I remember just looking at the green trim, the velvet black robe, the fitted trousers and I could not hold back my sneer. I have never sneered before; I did not know what was happening. At that very instant feeling the disgust creeping up on me I thought that Voldemort was possessing me again, that he was there, he was controlling my actions but hearing Ron's voice and feeling the slight laughter within my heart I knew that it was not Voldemort but me. Why was I becoming so bitter? I do not know. All I know is that looking at that dress robe I hated it. I wanted to burn it.

I didn't say anything though. How could I be so rude to Mrs Weasley after she had taken the time to buy it for me? I couldn't hurt her like that. I just couldn't.

'Mate you better hurry up. Mum wants us all dressed in half an hour and Ginny is in the bathroom so you won't be able to get a shower.' Ron had stated a happy grin on his face, his bright red hair framing his face. He had decided to let it grown out; he stated that he wanted to be like Bill, although I think he was trying to be classed as a rebel and not a stick in the mud. I had never felt so jealous of him. How was it that he could be so happy after what had happened? Why could he not be as miserable as I was?

'Yeah, you're right. I'll be right down.' I replied forcing a smile on my face. Mortals are curious creatures. They often see what they want to see. I knew that my smile looked forced, I could feel it and yet, Ron had nodded, flashed me that grin once more and walked out into the garden, his new robes flapping behind him.

Walking upstairs I passed Ginny. I remember the smell of lavender surrounding her, the brief smile she flashed my way, and the way she instantly straightened her back, her hips swinging as if to entice me, her own, long, red hair hanging down her back. I did react in certain places. I was a teenage boy and I remember all those nights we spent in her bed but I did not go after her, I did not shout at her to stop, I did not declare my undying love to her and state that I was wrong. No I continued to walk up the stairs, my head facing forwards as I reached the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

'Why must I face this hell?' I had cried. My head had fell back against the door, my eyes closed. I had felt such despair. Taking a deep breath I had walked to the sink and splashing cold water on my face I soon went about getting ready. Straightening the robe, brushing a hand through my hair, I had looked into the mirror. I did not look for long though, my hand automatically came up to brush down my fringe over my scar.

My scar. I have not thought about it. It is something I have lived with since I was born so I never think about. Just as I don't think about how I look. I have not explained what I look like and although I do not see the reason behind describing oneself I know that I shall have to. Maybe it would help for you to envision the man writing this.

When I was a teenager I was a scrawny little thing. I had knobbly knees, bony shoulders and a chest too thin for the rest of my body. My hair was an untameable, black mess and my eyes a green that reminded everyone of grass. Ironic that my eyes would look like something everyone walks over. The most impressive, the most important part of me was a lightening bolt scar on my forehead. I got it from Voldemort and that you will have read in the history books. The hero turned coward, there I go turning bitter again. Now though, now I look like an average twenty six year old male. Blood drinkers are not immortal, we age though not as quickly as mortals and we die. It is just that we are tougher to kill that is all, not some magical reason. Blood drinkers are just the result of an egotistical man trying to stay young forever.

I have aged, true it has taken me 300 years to look like an average twenty six year old, and it means I can never stay in the same place for too long, but it is better then staying the way I was when I was sixteen. Like mortals we blood drinkers can get fat, or look starved, we can gain muscle, get a tan though young blood drinkers can't. Myself, I look healthy for my age, I'm not muscled, I will forever be slightly lazy and not pretentious enough to care about what I look like and my hair after a lot of hair dressers is styled so it does not look as much as a bird's nest like it used to. It has taken me three hundred years to get like this; it is strange to think about. As I was saying when I was a teenager I hated my scar.

It was the symbol of hope so many strangers and friends alike craved to see, to worship under. In my mind they did not see Harry, the teenage boy grieving for his mentor, his godfather, his school friend. No to me they only saw the lightening shape scar on my forehead, they only thought of me as Harry Potter the Boy who lived. How I hated it. Most teenagers, if not all, wish they were someone else but at that very moment I wished I had never been born, that my parents had never sacrificed themselves for me and no matter how cliché it might seem, I wished that I was dead. My wish came true that day.

I walked downstairs, a smile on my face though my insides were churning. How could I go out there and face everyone knowing that I had seen Dumbledore die? How could I face Bill and his scars, Remus and everybody else knowing that I didn't stop the murder of Dumbledore that I had been too weak? I didn't know but I knew that I just wanted to hide, to run away. I sucked in a deep breath and walked outside.

'Harry dear, could you come and help me finish the arch?' Mrs Weasley called. I looked around, nodded once and walked over to her. I had thought this would have all been finished the day before but no, everyone was out in the garden trying to make it look nice, though the twins were still playing with the tables, Bill and Charlie joining them. We soon finished and making the excuse of wanting to find more herbs I walked off into the small forest surrounding the Weasley's home. Truthfully though they were just knotted trees around the edges, but I had walked behind the shed and through the trees making me barely visible to those in the garden. I had sighed in relief sliding down the tree, not caring if my robe got dirty.

" I had been relaxed. I had just sat there with my eyes closed. I was alone listening to the birds but as I listened I realised there were no birds. There were no sounds at all except for the crack of a stick on the ground. Instantly I was worried, standing up my wand out I was ready for an attack. I could fight them off, I felt the anger build within me. How dare they ruin Bill's day? I could not stand the thought.

'Who's there?' I called out, my voice shaking with anger.

'There is no need to take that tone with me child. Not when I'm making your wish come true.' A man stepped in front of me. He had long, black hair that fell limply around his face; his skin was a sickly pallor, his eyes sunken, and his frame lanky. He was not attractive but there was something about him, power that I was drawn to. He felt like Voldemort. I could taste the power and in that instant I wanted it. It had been hard to pull back on my feelings but I had done so. My wand was out, my eyes never leaving his smirking face.

'I don't know what you mean. Nor do I care. You are trespassing on private property at a very private time so leave.' I had ordered, my eyes narrowing as my voice shook. I couldn't be scared. I just couldn't be but I knew I was. There was something not quite right about the sickly looking man in front of me.

'Come now. Do you truly think that I care about something like that? Do you think I care about you waving your silly wand at me?' He had started to mock me, his eyes staying the same, his lips pulling further back though I never saw his teeth. I did not think this weird at first.

'Stop mocking me and leave!' I was getting angry; I remember the rage building up once again. It was as if the murderer was standing there before me. I wanted to cause the man pain, cause him damage but before I could do anything he had grabbed my wand, thrown it to the other side of the shed and holding me in a painful embrace.

His arms had been wrapped around my shoulders and waist. I had pounded at his chest but he was unmoving. He said nothing, just turned me so I was facing the tree I had been leaning against, his arm across my stomach, his other pulling at my head so it moved to the side.

'What are you doing?' I had screamed, I had struggled but he had been strong. I know I could have tried harder but my wish for death had been strong and my body had accepted that. Feeling the fangs pierce my neck, feeling the tongue of the blood drinker on my skin I had arched back allowing him more access, a moan ripping from my lips as I did so.

Are you wondering why I was getting enjoyment from my death? Are you sitting reading this pondering why is it that I did not scream or try and pull away? Being bitten by a vampire, having your blood drained is a very sexual feeling. There is an aphrodisiac in the vampire's fangs causing the victim to feel immense pleasure. I was moaning and shame was building up within me. The fangs were soon gong and a bleeding wrist placed before my mouth. I latched onto it, ignoring my disgust.

'Drink my beautiful pet. Drink. You'll be such a beautiful blood drinker,' He had whispered into my ear as he kept his wrist to my mouth. I did not care what he was whispering I just cared about the blood. I was feeling strong, I was feeling alive and my thoughts were finally silent. That was all I had cared about.

He had pulled his wrist away ignoring my whimper as I lay there panting on the ground, how I came to be on the ground I do not know, he just stood over me, that same sly smirk on his face. A terrible pain grew within me and a scream ripped from my throat. I felt as if I was on fire and as I glanced at my skin I could see the blood pumping beneath the surface. It felt as if it was moving to fast, it felt as if I was going to explode. He said nothing just watched as I writhed on the ground. Soon it was finished. My gums were aching, as was my entire body. It felt as if I had ran miles. My muscles were all cramped.

'Come now child. I could only keep your friends back so long.' He had said. I tried to protest. I was weak. I didn't want to go. I wanted my friends, but he had picked me up, thrown me over his shoulders and ignoring my shouts of embarrassment ran. He was mortal when he was made so he could not fly or control the air like I can now. He was not even that powerful but back then, back as he ran with the speed of a train I felt as if he was more powerful then anything I have seen before. Then I was scared that he could crush me like a bug and he could but he was not the strongest blood drinker. He had only been made in to a blood drinker a couple of decades before me.

In a few minutes we were at a modern day apartment building. He had set me down and then looked at me. His eyes were cold, angry, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

'You shall not say anything to anyone. You will do exactly as I say.' He growled at me. I did not understand his attitude but I was feeling weak so I nodded. It was then as I looked at him rushing into the building that his skin was cracking. Literally cracking apart. He led me through the building, down the stairs and down a corridor until we stopped at one door. I can still remember the room number, 007. I remember smiling slightly at the number remembering times of when Dudley, he had been my fat oath of a cousin, pretending to be agent 007. These were the basement apartments and as he opened the door and ushered me inside, I instantly wanted to turn and run. There in the middle of a seemingly ordinary living room and kitchen were two coffins. How he knew he would need an extra one I didn't know and I never asked. It was something I had never wanted to know. Even now I do not wish to know and there is no way of me knowing the answer.

He said nothing just ushered me over to the white coffin and opening the lid turned to me.

'I know you are worried my pet but you must sleep within the coffin. If you do not you shall be weak and you will be plagued with thoughts and nightmares.' I instantly stepped into the coffin and lay down. I didn't want my thoughts to come back. I wanted to sleep, I wanted to be free of them for once and staring up at the smiling face of my maker I felt my limbs become heavy.

'Sleep my pet. I shall wake you tonight.' He had whispered to me and then as the lid closed, as blackness surrounded me I closed my eyes and knew no more. That was when I became a blood drinker.

It is odd to think now that I never once questioned why he called me by pet names, why he called me child. It is strange to realise that I have kept my coffin. Even now I sleep within the confines of my white bed though it is well hidden. This day, this very day when I was supposed to be with my friends was when I was turned, when even now I realise that I had decided to leave the wizarding world to their fate. This was when, for once, my thoughts were silent.

* * *

**Authors Note: What do you think? **


End file.
